Work It Out
by Elessar1201
Summary: After being shot in the leg, Benton tries to return to his regular workouts, but thoughts of recent people and events make it hard to keep his focus.


Benton pushed his legs against the weight of the leg press. The left leg was still strong and flexible, despite the long-ago break, but between jumping out of windows, being stabbed, and being shot, the right leg had taken a beating the last few years.

 _Push._

He grunted, clenched his jaw, and pushed again.

 _Don't let the left leg do all the work. Push._

Sweat beaded on his forehead, dripped down from his hair.

He hadn't bothered with physical therapy this time. He had been through it enough times he knew what to do, how to brace against the pain, how to gradually increase reps over time without completely shredding the muscle or compromising healing. And he just didn't have the patience to go through the whole thing again.

He finished his reps and stood, wiped off his bench with a towel, and moved to the next machine. It would work his upper body, thank the good Lord, because his overworked left leg and his damaged right leg were already objecting to the rest of the workout. On this machine there was only the sensation of using his shoulders, back, and upper arms, feeling his pecs strain with the effort of pulling the bar first in front of him and then behind. He ignored the necessary ache that came from bracing against his legs as he pulled, and he didn't stop until his shoulders and arms quivered with the exertion.

He pressed his hands against his upper thighs, careful not to lean too hard against the wound. He'd be sore tomorrow. Good. An all-over, wholesome, whole-body sore was far preferable to the sharp, focused sore of a gunshot wound declaring his mistakes too loudly to ignore. The sweat soaked his t-shirt in a long V down his back; he could feel it sticking to his skin. He stood and turned carefully toward the next machine.

Leg lifts were next, the exercise he'd been dreading, but there was no point putting it off any longer. Procrastination never helped anything.

He didn't quite believe it, so he said it again.

 _Procrastination never helped anything._

He still didn't believe it, but he was standing between the machines looking foolish, so he wiped down the bench and moved over to the leg lift. _Any decent physio would make you do the same thing_.

Of course, but that didn't mean he was looking forward to it.

He sat awkwardly and reached over to adjust the weights. He could feel darkness bubbling up inside him, but he was not going to give in to it. Contrary to Ray's image of him, Benton was no stranger to darkness. Depression, loneliness, anger, vengeance, even lust…they were his constant companions.

Working out helped. The expression of his mastery over himself calmed him, and the mindless effort of repeated exertion somehow moved him into a zone where he transcended thoughts and allowed the darkness to rise within him. And then he could defeat it.

For today, anyway.

There was plenty of darkness to deal with—his father, his father's murderer, his chance to avenge a good officer, and of course, the inexcusable way he had put Ray's life in danger. That happened too often—he hoped Ray wasn't keeping count.

 _This is going to be torture._

He slipped his left ankle between the pads, and couldn't suppress a wince as he situated the right leg.

 _You've got to be stronger than that, Fraser._

He began lifting with his left leg. The right leg ached but he sank into it, counted repetitions, and let his mind open to the thoughts he'd repressed for so long.

 _Thatcher._

His eyes opened wide. That was _not_ what he'd been expecting.

Her face was vivid before him, and he smiled even in his pain. Frankly, he had other issues, other vivid, strong feelings that needed to get out, just get out of him, before they exploded and shredded him from the inside out. But right now, her face loomed before him, took up his field of vision, his energy, his life-force. Freud had had a word for "life force." _Libido._ It seemed apt in this situation.

He let the thoughts come.

 _Okay. So…Thatcher._

He lifted…lifted…lifted. Her huge dark eyes… _lift_ …eyes that reflected so many emotions… _lift_ …and perhaps there was something not quite right about him… _lift_ …but one of his favorites was that flash of temper… _lift_ …or exasperation… _lift_ …especially when it was directed at him. Which of course… _lift_ …it often was. She appeared cool and tough… _lift_ …and he knew well that wasn't just appearance. She was a Mountie with an impressive field record… _lift_ …but he could ruffle her feathers with very little effort.

 _Lift._

He liked that.

He lowered the weight, took a deep breath. That was twenty on the left, and there was no putting it off any longer. It was time for the torture. He lowered the padded weight on the left and slid his ankle out, then slowly slid his right ankle between the pads on the right side.

He took a deep breath. Held it…held it…held it…

 _What's the matter with you?_ The question came in Ray's voice. _Aren't you a Mountie brave and true?_

 _No, not really._

And whatever Ray seemed to think about it, Ben did not actually enjoy pain.

He clenched his jaw. _Begin._ He fixed his thoughts on Thatcher's dark eyes, shining hair, flashing expression, and lifted.

Pain took his breath away, shattering the beautiful image in his mind. He extended his knee fully, squeezed his eyes closed as he held the extension, then lowered it slowly. His mouth watered in preparation for vomiting, but he drew in a deep breath and the nausea dissipated.

 _Again. Brace…breathe in…lift…hold…lower…breathe out…rest. Do not vomit. You're thinking too much. Get your mind out of it. Only eighteen more. Again._

 _Brace…breathe in…lift…hold…rage._ His boot pressed into Gerard's chest…so easy to shift his weight, so easy to crush the sternum, break a rib, puncture a lung, break a heart.

 _Exhale…rest…again. Three. You're getting there._

He could be stupid about some things. He knew that, but if he hadn't known it, he had Ray to tell him. He could read a crime scene down to the grade and origin of mud specks that must have come from the perpetrator's shoes—

─ _exhale…rest…again. Four._

─but it had taken him several minutes to figure out what Ray was offering.

 _Take this. I'll make sure everyone knows it was self defense._

If he'd had any breath left he would laugh at himself.

 _Exhale…rest…again. Eight. Almost half way._

 _You're just like your father._

 _Brace…inhale…lift…hold…lower…exhale…nine. Brace… inhale… lift… hold… lower… exhale… ten. Braceinhaleliftholdlowerexhaleeleven. Braceinhaleliftholdlowerexhaletwelve._

Fury and contempt exploded. It flooded the pain and nausea, drowning every other feeling in hatred. It pooled in his mouth and dripped from his pores.

 _Lift…lift…lift…eighteen._

Why hadn't he done it? Gerard had laughed at him when he'd threatened to kill him for escaping, and even Ray had thought him too trusting when he'd refused to cuff Gerard in place on the night of their stake-out. But Ray got it wrong. Ben had wanted Gerard to try to escape. You can shoot at an escaping felon. You can grab your partner's spare .38 Beretta and put a bullet in a convict who also just happens to be your father's killer. If said convict was trying to escape, you could still sleep at night.

 _Lift. Lift. Lift. Thirty._ He barely noticed the blood starting to seep through the bandage.

And why shouldn't he administer justice, true justice? Not just for his father, but also for the RCMP. _Thirty-four._ For every just, good, honorable constable. _Thirty-nine._ For every parent trying to raise children to know right from wrong. _Forty-two._ For all of Canada, whom Gerard had betrayed.

 _Oh dear._

 _Fifty._

 _Breathe…lower._

And yes, for Sergeant Robert Fraser. A Mountie brave and true.

 _Sixty._

 _Hold…breathe…lower._

He pressed his arm against his mouth and leaned over his left leg. _Do not vomit._ His arm came away wet. He breathed through his mouth.

Gerard was back in prison. An American prison. He would be dead before long, if not by Ben's hand. Unfortunately. Because if he ever saw him again, he _would_ kill him, just as he'd said. Neither Ray nor Gerard took him seriously when he said that, but Ben was not exaggerating. He was out of self-control and done with second chances.

 _Breathe…_ Even breathing hurt his leg. This might have been a bad idea.

"Are you all right, Constable?"

Ben's eyes flashed upward and he drew in a sharp breath. There she was, Meg Thatcher, those big dark eyes fixed on him, searching him, seeing more than he wanted her to.

He sat up straight, the best approximation of attention he could give her, and fixed his eyes over her shoulder.

"Yes, sir. Perfectly fine, sir. Thank you kindly, sir."

She examined him, and he braced himself for the censure that would come.

"Fraser, do I look like a man to you?"

His eyes snapped to hers. With her hair in a ponytail, her eyes looked even bigger, doe-like, and in stretchy pants and a baggy t-shirt she looked like a teenager. A girl one. That was, a teenaged girl.

His face grew hot. "No, sir."

 _Not by any stretch of the imagination, sir._

"Then ma'am will do, Constable."

"Yes, sir. Ma'am."

She clenched the ends of the towel around her neck, opening and closing her fingers.

"How's the leg, Constable?" She breathed it reluctantly, on an exasperated sigh, and Ben closed his eyes for the briefest moment. He was simply too weak to resist the enjoyment of it.

He glanced down at the blood-soaked area of his bandage.

"Perfectly fine, sir. Ma'am."

"Good." She shifted her weight, and her eyes flashed. She was annoyed at something. Probably him. "Are you done with this machine? I'd like to use it."

"Ah, yes, ma'am. That is, I am finished, and I would be more than happy to let you use it."

Thatcher's eyebrows rose in an unspoken _Well?_

"Oh dear. Yes."

He moved his left leg, angled it out. He wished she wouldn't watch him. The shift put pressure on his abused muscles and he gasped, then quickly cleared his throat to cover the sound.

"Overdid it a bit, eh?"

"No, ma'am, I just—" He deflated. "Yes, ma'am."

"Come here, Constable." She squatted down next to the machine and wrapped her graceful fingers around his right calf. His breath, which had settled down a bit, sped up again.

"Brace yourself."

He barely had time to do so before she slid his ankle to the right and stretched his leg out. The shift brought a relief of pressure that was painful in its own way.

"Can you stand?" She glanced around. "I guess you're off your crutches."

"Yes, ma'am. I mean, yes, I'm off the crutches, and yes, I believe I can stand."

He had no idea if that was true. She was absolutely right, in his anger he had overdone it drastically, and probably done more damage to his injured leg.

He reached across to the machine beside him, braced his left leg, and pulled himself up, using mostly his arms and back. Thatcher's big dark eyes flickered over his upper body. She closed her eyes, breathed out, then opened them again.

"Can you walk?"

 _I have absolutely no idea, sir._ "Yes, I believe I can."

At least, he believed he _would_ , whether he _could_ or not. He was heartily tired of appearing weak in front of her.

He did his best to ignore her skeptical regard. Instead, he looked inward, into the rage and vengeance that were still so close to the surface. He blocked out Thatcher's face with an image of Gerard's.

 _You can shoot me, but you'll never stop me._

 _Step._ His knee buckled. _Hold on. Brace. I'll always be watching you._

It was twenty-two steps to the men's locker room.

 _If you survive prison, I'll kill you myself._

Gerard would be an old man by then, but at the moment it gave him a reason to take another step.

 _Chin up. Don't limp. Don't look at Thatcher. Just think about regaining your strength. You can't protect people if you're weak._

 _Step. Eighteen…seventeen…sixteen…_ He wished Thatcher would look away. He could feel her eyes on his back.

 _You can't afford to be weak. Just twelve more steps…eleven…do not vomit…ten…you can rest in just a moment…nine…stand straight…_

"Fraser."

He stopped. He'd been so close. He turned halfway back to her, clenching against the pain of angling his leg.

"Yes, sir."

"You know you're entitled to three months' medical leave, right?"

"I know, sir. Ma'am."

She regarded him steadily and didn't speak for a long minute.

"You understand that as an RCMP officer, you are the property of the Dominion of Canada."

It didn't seem to be a question, but he thought it prudent to answer anyway. "Yes, sir."

"I expect my constables to take excellent care of Her Majesty's property."

He frowned. "Yes, sir."

She nodded. "Carry on, Constable."

He nodded respectfully and suppressed a smile, then turned slowly and walked steadily to the locker room.


End file.
